


Reason for Shame

by derevko (sunshine_queen)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshine_queen/pseuds/derevko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton may have cheated, but that doesn't mean he's going to spoil his wife's evening.</p>
<p>A sort-of companion piece to iaintinapatientphase's Someone Else's Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason for Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [someone else's story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6329674) by [iaintinapatientphase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iaintinapatientphase/pseuds/iaintinapatientphase). 



> So, here I am, reading amazing fic in this beautiful fandom, and, of course, I have loved literally everything iaintinapatientphase has ever written. And then, upon reading the amazing someone else's story, I was struck by how horrifyingly gross Ham is, and, after screaming about it with iaintinapatientphase herself, this happened. Thank you so much for letting explore this!
> 
> Another big thank you goes out to Typey, who, as always, has made my work so much better.

He stumbles out the door, his tie undone and hair loose and thinks,  _ shower. I have to take a shower _ . He can’t possibly go home like this, even if he gets his tie done in the car, even if his hair down doesn’t  _ really _ say anything. It’s after eight now, and the kids are home,  _ Eliza’s _ home, and he can’t go home like this. Where do you shower when you can’t shower at home? He’s googling truck stops before the solution hits him — the gym. They have a membership to a gym — he has used it maybe twice in the time they’ve had it, but Eliza wakes up early to go to yoga classes a few times a week — and gyms have showers. He’s not sunk yet.

He gets home an hour later, his hair still damp. Philip and Angelica chorus, “Hi, Dad,” from the couch in the family room, and he follows the sound to see them sprawled on opposite ends. Eliza’s in the loveseat, Alex and Jamie asleep on either side of her. 

“Hi,” she says as he kisses the kids’ heads in greeting, in spite of Philip’s exaggerated groan, and she smiles up at him like nothing’s wrong. “Is your hair wet?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he  _ knows _ he’s about to start talking too fast. “After work I was just… .” To get ahold of himself before it’s too late, he fills in the rest by clenching his hands together and making a strangled sound. “So I went to play racquetball.”

“Racquetball?” Eliza asks in surprise. “When have you ever played racquetball?”

“Lots of dads play racquetball,” Angelica adds helpfully. “And golf, too.”

“Dad thinks golfing is pretentious,” Philip says. “Right, Dad?”

This situation is spiraling in a different direction than he anticipated, but at the moment, Eliza is looking at their older children fondly. “I think golfing is useless, which isn’t exactly the same thing.”

Angelica looks thoughtful. “Then why did you say that Uncle John...”

“...Was a great, great man who has earned his right to golf at his leisure in his advanced age? Probably because I respect him so much.” He shoots them glances that say  _be cool, guys_ , a slightly less frantic version of the look he gave himself in the visor mirror before coming into the house. “Look at the time!” 

The kids groan immediately, because the  _movie_ , but Eliza only has to remind them of their Saturday morning activities to get them going upstairs. She’s a great mom, and a great wife, and as he bends down to pick Alex up, he catches a trace of her perfume and wants to die. 

They get the kids into bed, teeth brushed and faces washed, and Eliza comes up behind him when he’s closing the door to Alex and Jamie’s room. She noses against the nape of his neck, her arms going around his waist. “Why racquetball?” She asks, and he can hear her meaning plain as day: It’s strange that he was so late on a Friday night, and she wants to know what is bothering him. 

“I needed to slam balls into walls,” he replies, honestly stunned at how easily he lies to his wife. He feels sick, even as he brings his arms up to cover Eliza’s. “I was frustrated.”

“Can I do anything?”

“Can you make Jefferson less of a douche?”

“Probably not,” she admits, squeezing him. “But you've done pretty good up against him so far.”

_ So far _ isn't going to help.  _ So far _ hasn't gotten the debt consolidated, hasn't made Jefferson stop thinking about the rolling green whatevers of Virginia first and foremost, hasn't made Madison talk to him without Jefferson.  _ So far _ can end up being  _ too far _ before he notices.

“Because I exercise tremendous restraint in not punching him on the regular.”

He just said that he exercises restraint and no bolt of lightning has struck him. Eliza doesn't know. Eliza, her face against his shoulder, doesn't know and that's why she isn't crying, or yelling, or taking the kids — she could take the kids away. He tenses at the idea. 

Eliza kisses the side of his throat. “It would liven up C-SPAN,” she muses, “But I can't imagine the president would like it. Or that it would help your plan’s popularity.”

“My  _ national _ popularity, though.” He's still not getting struck down. He's bantering and it's all okay. Maybe he can really make it all okay. He keeps going, feeling his way back to the confidence he’s so used to: “I could be internet famous.”

“ Do you really think you'd be able to enjoy it? ” Eliza pulls away, and he panics. Enjoy it? Is she calling him out? Implying that he enjoyed his evening? If he enjoys covering it up? He nearly gives in to his curiosity to wonder what exactly she’s noticed, what she’s seen, how she’s figured it out, but he suppresses the instinct to open his mouth.

But Eliza is only going into their bedroom. He follows her, half-listening to the Saturday activity line-up as she takes off her make-up. He just has to keep cool until Eliza falls asleep, and then he’ll figure something out. He can't bring this up with Angelica for obvious reasons, and Hercules is busy, and Lafayette is in France, and he needs to figure this out on his own. He can do it, and it doesn’t have to involve anyone else.

He feels very alone suddenly. 

His shoulders slump a little. Lafayette and Hercules wouldn’t understand anyway, and Angelica might actually murder him and will definitely take Eliza’s side. And Eliza —

— is coming over to him, ready for bed. She has a strict ten o’clock bedtime when she's pregnant, and he’s totally okay with that because how could she wrangle their kids and work full-time saving other kids without a good night’s sleep, and she asks him what he's going to do.

He's going to never, ever tell her, that’s what. It would ruin everything and it’s not like telling her would undo what he did, so there’s no upside. He's just never going to see that girl again. And even if he did...no, he has a family. He has  _ Eliza _ , and he's better than that. It was a mistake, but it's over. 

It would be hard enough, keeping this kind of secret, but keeping it from Eliza, the one person he would rely on in any other circumstance to help him, to make the stress of the situation easier to bear? He doesn't know how he'll manage, but he'll have to. So he takes a deep breath and answers the question she asked instead of the one she can’t ever know she’s supposed to.

“I'm gonna get something to eat and bring the iPad up here,” he says, brushing her hair back from her face. “Will the light bother you?”

Eliza shakes her head. “I'm beat. You'll set the alarm?”

“Yeah,” he says, and cups her cheek in his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replies, giving him that whole-hearted, breathtaking smile she has. She follows it with a kiss, but he barely returns it. He knows he can’t manage to be as natural in his affection tonight, and that failure irritates him.

He expects to stay up half the night, channeling his anger at the the tendrils of guilt that just won’t stop sneaking into his thoughts into email rants to the president and indignant critiques of Jefferson's latest published buffoonery, but he loses steam. He’s tired at 2:15 for the first time he can remember, and he spoons up behind Eliza, breathing in the scent of her.

If he dreams about what he's done, he doesn't remember it. 

The morning comes with all four kids barreling into their room, clamoring for yogurt and pancakes and doesn’t Mommy know that they have tennis at nine?

Mommy does know, of course — she knows everything that matters to the children, to their family. So they're all dressed and fed and ready to go by 8:30, laden down with bags as they walk to the park, because after tennis Angelica has swimming lessons while Philip and Alex go to karate. The whole morning is perfect: the sun-dappled sidewalk, Alex’s hand in his as he pushes Jamie’s stroller, Philip and Angelica chattering away with Eliza. They’ve earned this,  _ he's _ earned this, and he's going to make sure Eliza sees him working hard to keep it. That’s all she'll ever know.

**Author's Note:**

> Ham is gross and I hate him! If you haven't already, go read about Maria Reynolds and get a true and thorough knowledge of why he's the worst. 
> 
> (I love him and I'm not happy about it but we can all blame iaintinapatientphase for this.)


End file.
